Whisky Wisdom
by Alohaemora
Summary: George is reluctant to accept that the answers to his problems cannot be found at the bottom of a bottle.


10 July 1998

"Can I get you anything else?" asked Tom the barman, scrutinizing George carefully through his shrewd, gray eyes.

George felt a surge of annoyance, but he forced himself to bite back the angry retort that had sprung to his lips. "Jus' 'nother bottle of Ogden's for the road, please," he muttered instead, slurring his words slightly. "'Mleaving."

The bald, toothless barman narrowed his eyes. George glared back at him, reaching into his pocket and slapping two galleons down onto the table of his dark, isolated booth. Tom stared down at the money for a long moment. Then, with a little shake of his head, he picked up the coins and retreated to the bar to fetch the drink.

George turned and gazed in the direction of the back of the pub, towards the wall that separated it from Diagon Alley. Five bricks. That was all it would take. Five bricks, and a couple paces down the road, and he would be at ninety-three Diagon Alley. He could go inside, turn on the lights, clean up the aisles, repair the front displays, and be back in business.

"Here you go."

George jumped, looking around. Tom had returned with a bottle of Firewhisky that was only two-thirds full. George blinked at it. Then, he opened his mouth angrily—but the landlord had already set the bottle down on the tabletop and begun walking back to the bar. George glowered after his retreating form, his blood boiling.

Seizing the bottle, George snatched up his cloak from the back of his seat and stormed away from the booth, startling a pair of elderly warlocks who were sitting nearby. Swearing under his breath, George kicked open the pub's backdoor, and stumbled into the familiar brick-walled courtyard.

Clutching his wand tightly in his hand, he turned and faced the wall.

Five bricks. Three up. Two across. That was all it would take.

George stared at the wall, raising his wand.

But then, with a cry of frustration, he aimed a violent kick at a nearby dustbin instead. With an ear-splitting, resounding _crash_ , it slammed into the wall behind it, landing pathetically on its side a few feet away. Empty bottles, used napkins, and broken silverware flew everywhere, scattering all around the yard.

George cursed loudly, hobbling on his uninjured foot and rubbing his throbbing toe. Then, all of a sudden, he heard a thundering of footsteps behind him and he froze. Tom's angry voice was floating down the nearby corridor.

George didn't think twice. Clenching his wand in one hand and his Firewhisky bottle in the other, he spun on the spot, into the familiar, crushing darkness.

" _Ouch!_ "

Air filled George's lungs again, and he staggered, pain jolting through his right hand. Looking down, he realized that his right thumb was bleeding profusely. His fingernail was gone—he had splinched himself.

Shaking with frustration, George stowed his wand into his cloak and employed a few of Charlie's choicest curse words, sucking on his thumb. Then, he stepped out of the shadows of the deserted alcove he had just apparated into, and walked into bustling London street. Immediately, he was surrounded by passersby. King's Cross Station was as packed as it always was at ten o'clock on a Friday morning.

George paused for a moment in the middle of the station, looking around. Then, he spotted an empty bench, a few yards away, and he walked towards it.

A few of the Londoners gave him odd looks as they passed the bench—though whether it was because of his magenta robes or because of the bottle of unfamiliar, amber liquid he was holding, George wasn't sure. Nor did he much care. He had drunk enough that morning to numb his mind to strangers' opinions of him. So, instead, George leaned back against the bench and took a long swig from his bottle, watching the crowds march to-and-fro, chattering happily, their voices and footsteps blending together.

George saw a tall, lanky young man with thick-framed glasses hurry past, reading a newspaper and muttering under his breath, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked like Percy, George thought to himself, as he took a sip of Firewhisky.

Then, he caught sight a woman with long, dark red hair leading her two redheaded daughters through the platform. One of the girls was sneaking something out of her mother's purse. George felt the corners of his lips twitch. But then, he remembered that it had been nearly a month since he had last spoken to his own mother, and his smile faded. He took another sip of Firewhisky.

It was easier this way. It was easier to drink the nights away, so that he could sleep without dreaming. It was easier to drink through the afternoon, so that he could forget that Fred was gone.

It was easier to spend his mornings at the Leaky Cauldron than at the Burrow. It was easier to stare at the bottom of a bottle of Firewhisky than it was to watch his mother struggle to drag herself out of bed. It was easier to avoid seeing his father's tired, careworn face. It was easier to avoid seeing his brothers and his sister. And in the end, wasn't he was making it easier for them, too? They deserved to move forward, to pick up the pieces, without his shadow looming over them. They were finally finding it in themselves to pull themselves back up to the surface, and George envied them their strength.

It was easier to hide from the people he loved most in the world than it was to worry them—burden them—with his uselessness.

George lifted the bottle to his lips to take a swig, but then, his stomach dropped to his feet. It was empty. He stared down at the bottle, feeling a sudden surge of anger towards Tom. He swore.

"Talking to yourself is one of the first signs of madness, you know."

George jumped a mile out of his skin, looking up.

A tall, dark woman was standing in front of him, arms crossed, as she considered him closely.

George gazed at her, blinking blearily. "Angelina?"

Angelina didn't respond. Instead, she tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and prodded his arm, forcing him to move over on the bench. Then, much to George's astonishment, she took a seat next to him and pulled a bottle of Butterbeer out of her purse. Flicking the cork off with her thumb, she took a small sip and passed the bottle to him. George stared down at the bottle for a fraction of a second. With a jerky, noncommittal shrug, he accepted it.

They sat in silence for several, long minutes, passing the bottle back and forth.

Then, at last— "I s'pose you wanna know what I'm doing'ere," George mumbled.

Angelina was quiet for a moment, as she swallowed a mouthful of Butterbeer. "I think it's pretty clear what you're doing here," she said.

George bristled defensively. Angelina turned and stared at him.

"You're waiting for a train," she told him, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

George blinked at her, his mouth falling open. Then, involuntarily, unexpectedly, extraordinarily, he let out a strangled bark of laughter. It felt strange and foreign, and he stopped almost immediately. But just for a second—for one glorious, indistinct second—it brought him out of his paralyzing, alcoholic stupor. A few moments later, however, with a tiny shake of his head, George prized the Butterbeer bottle out of Angelina's fingers and raised it to his mouth, taking a sip.

Another dense silence spread out between them, filling the air.

"How'd you know where to find me?" George asked her finally.

Angelina gave him a small smile. "You told me."

George frowned. "What're you talking about?"

Angelina took the bottle away from him, rolling it between her hands. "In our seventh year—when Umbridge was running things, remember? You told me that if ever everything went to hell, you'd meet me at King's Cross—the bench outside Platform Seven."

George stared at her. "You remembered that?"

Angelina nodded curtly. Her eyes were blazing—with what, George couldn't be certain. "I don't forget things," she said in a low voice.

George's stomach clenched with a harrowing mixture of guilt and grief. Turning abruptly away from Angelina, he snatched the Butterbeer bottle out of her hands.

"Guess everything's gone to hell, hasn't it?" he asked humorlessly, before taking a lengthy sip.

Angelina didn't respond immediately.

Then— "Yeah," she said quietly. "I guess it has." She looked at him. "I ran into your sister yesterday at Quality Quidditch. She told me you haven't been home in a month."

A rush of fury filled George's chest. He glared at Angelina. "I have my own flat," he told her coldly.

"You haven't been _there_ in months either," Angelina said evenly.

George's patience broke. "What the hell is wrong with you all?" he demanded loudly, causing a number of heads in the vicinity to turn and stare at him. "You, Ginny, Ron—why can't you all just leave me alone?"

"Because we're worried about you," Angelina told him calmly, though there was a steely note in her voice now. She paused, her dark eyes piercing. "How many Firewhiskies have you had today, George?"

George scoffed, averting his gaze. "That's none of your business," he said harshly, clutching the nearly-empty bottle of Butterbeer tightly. "Get away from here, Ange," he told her. "Stop interfering in my family, and go back to yours—"

George broke off. Angelina had inhaled sharply and jerked away from him, as though burned. George blinked. It took him several, hazy moments to realize what he had said wrong—and when he did, he was utterly horrified. Shaking his head vigorously, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"Damn it, Ange—I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just—I completely forgot—"

"How convenient," she interrupted acidly, and George flinched. Raising his head, he stared at Angelina. She was sitting at the far end of the bench now, her long curtain of black hair hiding her face.

George swallowed. "Angelina—"

"It's fine," she said shortly, her tone furious—and slightly constricted. "I didn't expect you to remember."

The words were like a knife to his heart. George stared down at the bottle of Butterbeer in his lap, his stomach twisting. It was several minutes before he finally spoke again.

"To Roxanne Warbeck," he said quietly, raising the bottle in the air, towards Angelina. "Incredible singer, witch, and mother."

Angelina stiffened. Very, very slowly, she turned back around and looked at him. Her eyes were bright and slightly bloodshot. With a stiff nod and a sniff, she reached out and accepted the bottle. "To Roxanne," she repeated softly. Then, she met his gaze, her eyes blazing again. "And Fred."

George clenched his jaw, turning away and staring down at his feet.

There was a lingering pause.

"I want to reopen the shop," George whispered, glancing at Angelina. She was watching him closely.

At this, she smiled—it lit up her features—her eyes, her face. The sight filled George with a bizarre, unfamiliar warmth. "I think that's brilliant," she told him.

George closed his eyes. "I don't know how to do it, though," he muttered. "I haven't been able to get further into Diagon Alley than the Cauldron's backyard."

Angelina gazed at him. "That's not bad."

"Please, Angelina," George snorted. "It's pathetic."

Angelina grinned. "All right—it's pathetic," she agreed. "But at least you admit it."

George shook his head.

Then, at long last, he forced himself to say the words—the dreadful, terrifying question that had been pounding at the inside of his brain since May— "Who the hell am I, Ange?"

Angelina stopped smiling. She blinked rapidly, several times. "You weren't the same person, George," she said quietly.

George shrugged. "I know, but we were never apart either," he said hollowly. He paused, swallowing. "I wasn't supposed to end up alone."

Quite suddenly, Angelina squared her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full height. Her expression was resolute—her jaw firm, her eyes glinting. "You aren't alone, George," she told him sharply. "And I don't ever want to hear you say it again—because apart from your big, barmy family, you've got me."

George stared at her, his mouth slightly open. "You?" he asked blankly.

Angelina rolled her eyes at him. "Don't sound so enthusiastic," she said sarcastically. Then, softening her expression, she scooted closer to him on the bench. "Here—I'll make you a deal," she whispered. "I'll help you get the joke shop up and running again, provided you do something for me."

George narrowed his eyes. "What d'you want?" he asked warily.

She gazed at him. "Take a shower," she said seriously. "You smell like a ghoul and a troll had a baby, and then baptized him in Firewhisky."

George blinked. Then, it happened again—almost against his will, he let out a strangled shout of laughter and shook his head. Angelina smiled. Dusting off her white jeans, she climbed to her feet, hitched her purse up her shoulder, and held her right arm out to him.

George stared at it for several moments. He looked up into Angelina's dark, brown eyes and the strange rush of warmth filled his stomach again.

Swallowing, he reached out and took her hand.

* * *

Author's Note:

George and Angelina are one of my favorite couples in the Potterverse, coming in second only to Ted and Andromeda. :')

This was for the Cinema Competition. The prompt was Inception: Write about a literal or figurative change in scenery, or Apparation. I think I managed to capture both in this story. The optional quote prompt was: "You're waiting for a train." Angelina says it.

Tell me what you thought!

Ari


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